


Welcome to Sunny California

by NocturnLily



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: 1940s, Blood and Injury, Detective Noir, Drug Use, Film Noir, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Infidelity, Los Angeles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Writing Exercise, atmosphere, mood study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NocturnLily/pseuds/NocturnLily
Summary: A collection of study pieces to get in the mindset of writing gumshoe shenanigans. Largely covering the mood and atmosphere of different, small-scale places, and to hone my writing overall. Written in no particular order.Constructive critiques are strongly encouraged!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. A Long Day, Done

The sun hid below the horizon as the city began to stir for the second time, nightlife stretching invisible fingers and energizing its streets. A young woman's pace quickened, eager to get home and drown the day at the bottom of a glass. Two blocks down, hang a left; almost there. It was a tall brick building on Grand, between 1st and 2nd, the twin doors of the apartment lobby cradled between two storefronts. A hallway of neutral linoleum lined with birch greeted her inside.

Upstairs she went, three flights up. Room 302.

It was a simple, one-bedroom apartment; the cream paint was easy on the eyes, comfortably furnished with dark wood and sunny yellow upholstery. Gentle pinks and oranges tickled the interior through open curtains. It was the blessed kiss of a day done.

In one motion her jacket came off, tossed errantly over the arm of her couch, and her door was kicked closed. A bar cabinet sat tucked in the far corner of the room, and she couldn’t get to it quickly enough. Bourbon was tonight's poison. It warmed her belly as she reached for the dial on the little Zenith radio on the coffee table; the speaker crackled to life, and she eased herself into the cushions. Glenn Miller's orchestra sang sweetly to her, uncoiling the tension from her shoulders and closing her eyes. Her tumbler tipped precariously on her thigh, held in place only by the tips of fingers.

She should have gotten dinner on the way home. Oh well.


	2. Hum of the City

The sun hovered just over the Los Angeles skyline, shadows of surrounding buildings cutting like teeth over everything they touched. Central began its exchange for the night shift; patrolmen handed in their reports, secretaries exchanged gossip, a congregation surrounding the water fountain bubbled with plans of hitting up the closest dive bar.

A floor above, stifling quiet buffered the lively chatter below. Traffic's squad room lay washed in rich oranges, bleeding through the open doorway and onto the desks beyond. The rattle of metal fan blades inside their cages, with the occasional whisper of shuffling paper, danced with the heat of the building. It sang quiet lullabies to tired eyelids and day-strained shoulders, a white noise lurking and waiting to sink its fingers into whoever would let it.

The worst of the August heat dissipated outside as oranges faded to pinks, as pinks faded to twilight. Streetlamps bloomed to life in wide swaths across the city, the gentle hum of their bulbs a background chorus to the rush of tires and bustle of crowds coming and going.

The City of Angels stretched its wings, coming alive in the night.


	3. Hit and Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention and descriptions of blood and bodily injury in this chapter.

Rain whispered over the streets of Los Angeles, painting the sky a swollen grey as faint morning light came around. Streetlamps hadn't yet flickered out, their light diffused and warm against the dreary haze of suburb and city alike.

It was darker here, though, in the alleyway off 8th and San Pedro. Downtown LA, a blue-collar part of town. Tall and squat warehouses, intersected with storefronts, were rudely woken by sirens screaming through the streets. A body had been found, poor soul, by a bleary-eyed truck driver coming in with an overnight shipment. He'd nearly run over her.

Facedown, head cracked open. She would have been easy to miss, for a driver trying to finish his run for the night. Tire marks stopped roughly twenty feet from the body and blemished the outgoing driveway; best preliminary guess was she'd been run over. The call was put in for Traffic, and the coroner. Responding officers busied themselves with keeping prying eyes away from the scene.

The weather worsened, rainfall coming down heavier and spattering the blood on the asphalt into trickling streams. It would make cleaning up after the body easier, at least.

What a terrible start to the week.


	4. In the Heat of Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Didn't mean to go the steamy route for any of these but here we are lmao. I keep these vague on purpose as an added challenge to myself because why not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listened to [Klimeks - Reborn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FEEtJrvg0g) several times over as I was thinking on smutty detective things and I just couldn't stop myself.
> 
> Please be warned! Sexual content is heavily suggested in this chapter.

A pair of glass tumblers sat quietly on the living room table, neglected, as the amber and ice inside came up to room temperature. Condensation glistened delicately in the twilight blue spilling through half-curtained windows, an otherwise serene calm against the darkening room. But the apartment was, deceptively, far from silent.

The bedroom door shook hard in its frame. For every powerful rattle, there was an equal, desperate keening on the other side.

Fingernails dug deep crescents into the back of her partner. Red, angry lines followed as one of her hands came up to lock roughly into his hair, earning a tightened grip on the back of her thighs. She was powerless, stirruped around his waist, and her body heaved to replace the air repeatedly rocked out of her lungs. Any words she thought to make died in her throat, replaced by throaty pleas of encouragement.

Sloppy kisses ran hot over her jaw and down her neck, and her body fluttered around him as teeth bore down into skin. Shaking, she pulled him closer as he suckled against one of those possessive marks. His tempo kicked up—harder, more shallow—and the heat pooling in her belly roared hotter. She wouldn't last much longer, like this.

"Oh God, oh _please_ —" was all she could manage before stars erupted before her eyes.

On the other side of the door, another man stood watching with drawn lips and a gun shaking in his hand. He'd heard the sounds, heard the banging and came _running_ , thinking she was in danger. What a fool he was, to think it wouldn't come to this; how stupid _she_ was, forgetting to lock the door to the apartment.

And yet he waited; waited for the afterglow and the tired, eager kissing. Furious salt pricked the corners of his eyes as he sat heavily on the couch, fighting to keep his focus as she left the room in nothing but a chiffon robe.

Her bedfellow followed, and she screamed as the shot rang out.


	5. Thanks for Catching Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nights on the town don't always play well. It's good to have folks looking out for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for this came from [Lorn - Sega Sunset](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mauV2NdCs60) cause its A+ writing music. Unlike the previous chapters, this is going to be a brief draft for a scene I want to put in my proper LA Noire piece that I'm working on.

The filaments in Cavanagh's marquee hummed to LA's inky night sky, their monotonous drone lost to the music bleeding out below.

Inside, patrons were nearly shoulder to shoulder—it was a busy night, a good night, for the bar. Blue-collar folks enthusiastically tapped glasses with each other; off-duty patrolmen chatted up pretty women; on the fringes of excitement, in the back room, men with cigars smoked and drank and talked about things they knew would be paid no attention.

Tucked behind busy liquor shelves, the powder room muffled most of the bustling party. It did nothing for Evelyn's pounding head.

An almost-warm beer bottle pressed against her temple as she sat, pigeon-toed, in a closed stall. She wasn't ill, not quite, but knew enough that the night was too young to be this far gone. A final swig, toss the bottle, check the dingy mirror in the single, flickering light above. Ah, you look so pretty; touch up here and there, no one will notice that unfocused stare. It was only a few steps to the door, but they were practice enough.

Evelyn returned to the party with a trained smile; the group of young men chatting her up prior to her retreat pulled her back into the fold. She nearly lost her balance, and they laughed it off as they plied her with another drink.

It was about this time the rest of Central's finest usually made it through the doors. Stefan all but dragged the Golden Boy himself by the scruff of his suit, and the pair of them shouldered their way to the bar. A round of scotch, "my treat _goddammit_ ," when Cole tried to refuse. If nothing else, be polite. That's more your thing, right, Phelps?

A familiar titter down the bar caught Stefan's attention, hardly surprised to find the social butterfly of a secretary midst a swarm of chattering hopefuls. He was nothing if not attentive, though; a quick backhand to Cole's wrist, a nod in Evelyn's direction. His partner watched, now, too. They didn't like what they saw.

Her smile didn't make it to her eyes. Hands were getting familiar where they shouldn't have been. She tried to make it look natural, but she had the bar in a white-knuckle grip. The bartender was one neither of them knew, and if he noticed the plea in her eyes he made no move to answer her. Evelyn finally made to break through the wall of bodies a second time, but she was denied.

Stefan was on his feet before Cole; he wasn't gentle as he elbowed through the crowd. Any complaints died once they saw that flash of gold on his hip.

Cole was close behind as he guided her out of the bar and into the night air. Oh, _blessed_ night air, Evelyn breathed deeply; no longer drowning in smoke, the fresh air made her head swim. Strong hands steadied her as she was spun in place, and Stefan did his best to get a better look. Her eyes were blown out, unfocused; she was better equipped to play off the stumbling inside, but out here she struggled to find balance. His gut dropped at the what-ifs reeling in his head; Cole made the suggestion to get her home.

Climbing into a car shouldn't be this difficult. "Sorry to ruin your night, boys," she slurred, "but I'm sure glad you were here."

"Yeah, so are we."


	6. Be Careful 'Round His Neck of the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh no, baby, what is you doin???_  
>  Or, protag gets tailed by the worst possible person in LA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another draft idea for my main story. Plugging [Lorn - Sega Sunset](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mauV2NdCs60) again because it sets the mood for both this and the previous chapter.

It shouldn't have taken as long as it did to find a dealer, but such are the growing pains of a new city.

The drive from Sunset Boulevard was a long one—almost unnecessarily so, for the risk, but she figured Hollywood would make for better pickings. More than once, though, Evelyn could swear someone was following her. Had this been New York she could have shaken anyone, but it was sheer, dumb luck that didn't see her driving into a dead-end in a panic. Either she was going too far for them to bother, or she'd genuinely lost her pursuer, but past Rosewood she'd finally felt safe enough to leave her rearview mirror alone.

What a hit to her pride, to think she was sloppy enough to earn a tail. She could work that out later.

For now, Evelyn retreated to her apartment—a cozy little place on Bixel—and parked in the alley. She took the stairs up at a trot, making sure not to look anyone too closely in the eye. Nerves wracked her, though they had no place to, here. Or was that eagerness to dig into the prize hiding in her bag? Evelyn couldn't tell.

She tried, and failed, to will her hands to stop shaking long enough to jam her key into the lock. They clattered to the floor, _goddammit_ , and she tried again. Success. Inside, shut the door, lock it behind you. As an added measure, she tugged her curtains closed.

God, it _was_ nerves.

Rounding her coffee table, Evelyn flopped unceremoniously to her couch and fished for what she was after; cigarette case, license and, the headliner, a small packet no bigger than the end of her thumb.

Outside, a block down, a wine-red convertible lay in wait with its top up. Inside, the radio crackled to life.

— _Further to your request, '37 Lincoln, plate number 7-9-Charlie-2-0-7, belongs to an Evelyn King. The address is 417 Bixel Street, Apartment 301. KGPL Clear._

"Copy, KGPL."

Evelyn breathed in deep, leaning back from the coffee table and sinking contentedly into her couch. The rush made the world tilt, made her head feel like it was inflating. She knew she would never get used to that nauseating feeling, but she stuck it out. She could feel a second wind—hell, a third wind!—come over her and she snapped the case shut. Like a cat with cream, everything went neatly back into her bag. And then the door exploded.

Not exploded. Knocked. Someone _knocked_ , but it startled her so badly it may as well have.

Nerves kicked up fresh, high-wired and moving faster than she could wrangle them. She could have ignored it. She could have stayed quiet and let whoever called on her think she just left the lights on, but the knocking came again. Evelyn shuffled to the door. Too quick, too quick, she backed away. To the door again? Well now she had to, surely the person at the door heard that. Schooling her face in what she was almost certain was pleasant, Evelyn opened the door.

"Hey there, Evie." Oh goddammit all to hell. Goddamn him and his stupid, smug grin. _Roy_. "Mind if I come in?"


	7. Trapped in the Late Night Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again with Sega Sunset cause I don't know what I'm doing with my life.

Swirling whispers of grey coiled and stalled in the air above the booth before, ultimately, getting lost in the haze that dulled the bar's lights.

11 pm, according to the clock face ticking rudely in the corner. Agonizing. The crowds died out an hour ago, leaving only those truly lost to the night. Evelyn leaned heavily over the small table. She didn't want to go back home, didn't want to be alone. Not really. At least here there were hushed undercurrents of distant conversations; here, there was the occasional clink and shuffle behind the bar. It was white noise that comforted a dull, persistent throb clenching her temples.

The secretary didn't miss the barkeep's glances her way. Was he concerned? She didn't care.

She was fine.

Quiet tinkling from her glass pulled her attention down. Evelyn stared, lost in the way the cubes of ice danced as they melted. Moisture built a rim around the bottom of her tumbler, staining the wooden veneer beneath. So many ghosts of glasses past left marks where condensation sat too long. Evelyn's top lip curled up with contempt at the thought of adding her own miserable mark. And she was miserable. Thoughts had a funny way of making your own four walls unbearable, sometimes, and tonight her own refused to leave her be.

The last call sounded, and Evelyn looked up. How was it midnight already?

She groaned into her hands and, one by one, Cavanagh's last remaining patrons filtered out. Evelyn paid her tab and declined a taxi. Her steps were slow but measured—damned if she would let binging get the better of her. The air outside was balmy but fresh. It felt good, and she didn't like it. A reefer balanced between her lips as she fumbled hurriedly with a matchbook. By the time she got to the car door, she was jiggling her key into the ignition and puffing away.

It was dangerously brazen to smoke like this, even at this late hour, but the bourbon had long since dulled her capacity to give a damn. The night air would keep any residual smell from her and the upholstery, anyhow. In six or so hours, when she had to get up and at 'em, no one would be any the wiser.

But goddamn, how she sometimes wished they would.


	8. Pedal to the Metal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Been toying around with street racing ideas, but the beginning mood came from [The Toxic Avenger - Set Me Free](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YXUCyyhfovo).

The sun hung heavy and orange in the sky, cradled by the sharp edges of Downtown LA's warehouses.

Factory whistles bellowed the end of the day, and the streets swelled with those fighting traffic to get home or their next drink. Delivery truck horns blasted, and disgruntled pedestrians shouted back. Streetlamps flickered to life. Los Angeles stretched and flowed with its lifeblood, car exhaust choking its lungs and cigarette butts freckling its face.

In nearby lots and alleyways, four drivers patiently watched their timepieces. The minute hands ticked tantalizingly close to marking half-past eight, and engines rumbled to life. Beneath haloes of harsh incandescent lights, a woman undid a black-and-white, striped neckerchief, and stopped at the crosswalk. That was their cue. Like insects emerging from the shadows, engines puttered and tires crunched over loose bits of asphalt as they took their places.

The striped scarf fluttered with each step its owner took, and a chorus of engines shook the air around them as they roared anew.

Nearby onlookers, stragglers, scattered around corners as they realized what was to transpire. The drivers paid mind only to their signal-bearer, any shouts to call the authorities lost to agitated accelerators. Finally, the stripes dropped, and an unholy squeal ripped through 7th Street as the racers rocketed away from Alameda.

Catch 'em if you can, suckers.


End file.
